The Inevitable College AU
by hull1984
Summary: Ron and Draco: The University Years.


**A/N: **This was written for a Ron/Draco challenge on livejournal. My prompt was 'Draco Malfoy - the amazing bouncing ferret'. It became 'part 1' when I realised I had a lot more to say in this universe and not enough time to say it before the deadline. I have a further 10,000 words or so written and am still working on it. Don't usually post wips but am hoping putting it out here might give me the kick up the arse I need to finish it ;)

* * *

The Inevitable College AU

Part 1

Ron blinked several times.

The bloke behind the desk should have been wearing a long dress and terrorising Hobbits into undertaking strange and dangerous quests. Not heading up the American Studies Department of a small English University.

Ten further minutes in the man's company did not lessen the impression. Half-moon glasses. Seriously?

"So, Mr Weasley, there you have it," Professor Dumbledore smiled kindly as he sat back in his chair. "The choice is yours." He held up a key ring holding two keys.

Ron fought the urge to roll his eyes; the old geezer had been very apologetic after all. But it really was a shitty choice. Take the room he was being offered in one of the university's many student houses, or spend the last week before term searching for alternative accommodation. He would have been happy to take the room if its apparent crappiness hadn't been such, that even the Housing Office had felt compelled to request he check it out before accepting it. Sure, he had yet to set eyes on it, but they'd summoned him there for a personal apology from the Head of the Department. How fucking good could it be?

Of course, there was no way he was going to be able to find anything else this close to term, which the bastards must have known; so much for returning exchange students being given priority.

At least they'd had the decency to offer him a discounted rent.

* * *

Which was nowhere near enough.

Ron looked around the room.

It was a cupboard. He was going to spend his fourth and final year as a student living in a fucking cupboard.

It didn't even have any of his stuff in it yet and it was already cramped. And that bloody wardrobe would have to go.

* * *

A week later, with his books and files lining the one shelf, and his kettle and music system (thank Christ it was a compact) squeezed onto the desk, it didn't seem quite so bad. The wardrobe was now out on the landing, so at least Ron could actually get into the room. It wasn't ideal, but he really didn't think his new housemates would be interested in stealing any of his shabby clothes, and none of the ones Ron had met so far had objected to the wardrobe's new location (it was in the farthest corner of the landing, so it's not as though it was going to be in anyone's way).

Ron's grudging acceptance of his sorry lot probably owed much to the fact that he was just so glad to be back. And well, with five older brothers and a younger sister, space had always been at a premium; it wasn't as if he wasn't used to squeezing in.

He was even coming to terms with the location. Marlborough was a wide, tree lined avenue about a mile from campus. Yeah. Not actually one of the tree lined avenues _adjacent_ to the campus (Ron probably should have done more research before filling out the form). He had hoped for a house that was maybe a five minute roll out of bed from the Arts Building, or a short, steady stagger perhaps from the Union Bar (Ron had really been looking forward to that; being naturally lazy, having to catch the last bus back to the halls - or worse, having to drunkenly cycle the four miles home - the first two years of his student life had been a major downer). He was still trying to not feel overly bitter that Harry had scored a house on the closest avenue to the university.

_"Three minutes, Ron, I timed it."_

Git.

Well, Ron sincerely hoped that his friend's room was bigger than his - Ron planned on spending a lot of nights crashing on Harry's floor. It was the least Harry could do, the jammy git. Speaking of Harry, now would probably be a good time to check out that room.

Ron got up from where he was lying on the bed (he may have been mostly resigned to the size of his room, but there was no denying that being able to touch the opposite wall with his outstretched arm was unsettling) and pushed open his door.

As he walked onto the landing, the door at the other end of the hallway opened. Ron paused; he knew this was the only other single in the house and he was curious to see who had managed to nab it (especially as he'd already been told by a gleeful first year that it was about three times the size of Ron's own cubby hole).

Ron watched as the figure across the landing looked up. And time seemed to stand still.

(No, seriously, Ron hated clichés but it really did).

Ron found his voice first. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

The boy that had come out of the other room, narrowed his eyes at Ron before turning on his heel, and walking right back in again, letting the door close behind him with a loud slam.

Well, bugger.

Back in his own room, Ron got out his phone and called Harry.

"Oh my God, you won't believe who's still here!"

Ron looked balefully at his phone; shouldn't that have been _his_ opening sentence?

Harry continued undaunted. "And you definitely won't believe where he's living!"

Ron resisted the urge to throw his phone at the wall - he really couldn't afford to replace it - and threw it down on the bed instead.

Well, shit.

Okay, if he was honest, or forced to be honest (strung out on a rack while some sadistic bastard stretched him into unbearable agony type honest), then Ron might, just might mind, admit that he used to have the teeniest, tiniest, blink and you'd miss it, crush on Draco Malfoy (but it would have to be a very, very stretchy rack and a very sadistic bastard indeed).

It hadn't gone well.

And now, it seemed, he'd be spending the rest of the year sharing a house with the arsehole.

Well, bugger, shit.

* * *

_3 Years Ago_

Ron pulled the sliding door to the balcony open, enjoying the satisfying _whoosh_ it made, and stepped out into the fresh air. He was relieved to be on the first floor. He had no head for heights and had been a little wary that he would find himself three floors up and gripping the ground for the next year. As it was even Ron's wobbly relationship with gravity could cope with the four foot drop to the ground below – in fact it would probably be a handy short-cut come dinner time.

Ron smiled as he took in his surroundings. So far, he couldn't have wished for a better location. He was in the hall closest to the Resident Centre and about ten feet from the shop. Ron allowed his gaze to drift along the path that ran below his window taking in the five other halls that lined the route. He'd read that the student village had won an architectural award and he could see why. The university had resisted the urge to build on every square inch of land, so that the majority of rooms overlooked a vast expanse of sloping green field, dotted here and there with a variety of small trees.

Ron grinned as he remembered the sign that someone had hung over the entrance to his block – "_PONTINS_". Yeah, he could see how this place could possibly be mistaken for a holiday camp. Bill had exchanged a wry look with him as they'd walked under the sign. "Remember, Ron, you are here to work as well as get pissed," and he'd winked at his little brother.

Ron stepped back into the room, leaving the door open to let in some air. He couldn't quite believe the size of his room. It seemed huge after sharing with Fred and George for so long; having just one room-mate was going to be awesome. Unless he turned out to be an axe-murderer (or worse, an Oasis fan; but then surely that's why God had created iPods). Laughing quietly at his own thoughts Ron began to unpack.

He'd barely had time to open his suitcase, when the door was kicked open and a whirlwind of hair and teeth blew into the room. For a moment Ron was blinded – my God, how could one mouth contain so many white, white teeth? – then, slowly, the hair and teeth resolved themselves into a short, dark-haired boy, wearing the biggest shit-eating grin Ron had ever seen.

"Er." Okay, so it wasn't the coolest opening Ron had ever come up with, but he was still reeling from the abrupt entry. He was also a little put out by the other boy's appearance – was that _eye-liner_?

The sudden suspicion that this might well be Ron's new room-mate was a sobering one. Ron prided himself on his ability to get on with most people, but this guy's manic grin was definitely unnerving (even if he was so short that Ron could probably fit him in his pocket - you didn't have to be tall to wield an axe).

"Hey." The boy nodded at Ron. "'Trick here yet?"

"Huh?" Clearly, Ron wasn't going to be winning any awards for his oratory skills anytime soon. But really what _trick_?

The other boy finally stopped grinning and frowned. "Hey man, you retarded or what?"

"What?" Ron resisted the urge to bang his head on the desk and sighed instead. "I mean, sorry, who are you?"

"Oh." The grin was back and just as blinding (Ron automatically patted his pockets for his sunglasses). "Sorry." The boy stepped forward holding out his hand. "Pete."

Ron shook his hand. "Hi. I'm Ron."

Pete held on to his hand, taking a step closer. "Yes," he waggled his eyebrows at Ron. "Yes, you are." Then to Ron's chagrin, he gave him a very thorough, clearly appreciative, once over.

And Ron did not squeak and drop his hand in girlish fear for his virtue (whatever Pete would later maintain). He simply chose that moment to continue his unpacking. This necessarily required him to let go of Pete's hand and take several steps back to his suitcase on the bed, naturally keeping the other boy in his sight as he did so, it would simply have been rude to turn his back on his guest...(oh, shut up).

"So," Possibly-Serial-Killer Pete continued. "Patrick, not here yet?"

Ron looked up from his unpacking. "Patrick?"

If possible the other boy's grin grew even wider. "Yeah." He flopped down on the bed across the room. "Patrick Stump, your room-mate and my best friend."

Ah. Well, now things made more sense.

Ron shook his head. "No. No Patrick." He looked around the room pointedly.

"Sooo," Pete grinned, clearly he was oblivious to sarcasm. "Ron, tell me all about yourself." And, oh God, he waggled the eyebrows again. "You can start with letting me know if that glorious hair colour is completely natural and if those delicious freckles cover _all_ your body..."

Ron was saved from answering by the sudden opening – again – of the door.

The boy in the baseball cap that walked into the room this time, took one look at Ron's red face and Pete sprawled, grinning on the bed and rolled his eyes.

"You," he said, pointing at Pete. "Fuck off back to your own room." At the dark haired boy's attempted protest he raised his finger. "No, Pete. Go. _Now_."

And to Ron's amazement – and awe – Pete actually stood up and headed towards the door. Ron didn't know who this other kid was, but he was already a little in love with him.

Pete paused at the door. "Later." And the git actually winked at Ron, before disappearing out of the room.

"Right." The new arrival shook his head, before walking up to Ron and holding out his hand. "Hi, I'm Patrick and apparently we're room-mates for the next year."

Ron looked hesitantly at his hand.

Patrick sighed. "Look, I beg you not to judge me by Pete."

When Ron continued to look wary, he went on. "My biggest fear is that aliens will somehow happen on Pete one day and judge all humanity accordingly. Before you know it ID4 ."

Ron couldn't argue with that. And he couldn't resist Patrick's smile either; grinning he took the other boy's hand. "He _is_ something."

Patrick nodded in agreement. "Oh, he is. He really, really is."

Ron learnt later, that Pete and Patrick had known each other since they were four years old. They'd met in Reception class, and had been pretty much inseparable since. The thought of going to different universities had never occurred to either of them.

So, now Pete was just down the stairs sharing a room with an Irish boy called Seamus. Ron met Seamus later that evening over at the Centre Bar. The fact that he had to wait for the other boy to come down from the ceiling light to do so, led Ron to believe that he and Pete had been well matched (although Ron also suspected that the authorities might well come to rue the day that they had ever paired the two up).

Ron was also introduced to the boy in the single room next to Pete and Seamus. Harry was such a relief after The Ritalin Brothers. He was quiet, unassuming and above all, didn't leer at Ron. Ron pretty much loved him on sight. He'd never had a best friend – five older brothers had seemed to negate the need – but talking to Harry that night, Ron thought he might well have found one.

Even so, he didn't tell Harry everything. Not right away.

No, Ron kept Draco Malfoy to himself for a few weeks more.

* * *

Ron waited five weeks before telling Harry.

"Well, now that's what I call dinner with a view."

Ron sighed contentedly and sat back in his chair, dreamy smile playing across his lips. Secretly, he was feeling a little pleased with himself. Ron was obviously about to astound Harry with his revelation.

Harry looked up from his chocolate cake and shrugged. "Oh, you mean that blond bloke you've spent the last five weeks ogling."

Ron sat back up and gaped at him. "How the fuck...?"

Harry gave him a look that screamed _duh_. "Duh." Then, at Ron's continuing look of consternation. "Oh, come on, Ron you're not exactly subtle."

Ron pouted.

(He would later forgive Harry for his insensitivity. Mainly because Harry would spend the next three years patiently listening to him going on about what an arsehole Draco Malfoy was. And never once call him on it).

Back in Harry's room, Ron listed the blond boy's many attributes, and the exact moment that he had noticed each of them. Harry pretended not to have noticed Ron's noticing. Harry was a brilliant best friend.

It started at The Freshers Ball (Ron chose to ignore Harry's comment about bad 60's ballads, the screech of tyres and probable fireballs; Harry wasn't always brilliant).

Ron still didn't get it; how he hadn't seen him before that night. Not when afterwards Ron seemed to see him everywhere. But yeah, somehow it had taken Ron a full week.

Ron had spotted the blond boy in the bar, standing next to the wall. He had a grey jumper draped across his shoulders, looking for all the world like some sort of bloody Evelyn Waugh reject. Ron had rolled his eyes; good to know he wasn't the least cool person there. The blond had been standing next to a tall, dark haired boy. Both had been ridiculously hot, and the contrast between light and dark was so striking that Ron couldn't understand how everyone wasn't looking at them.

Unfortunately, Ron had been distracted a minute later, when some prat had chosen that moment to knock Ron's beer out of his hand. Ron had just finished wringing the last of it out of his shirt, when Pete had walked over and dragged him off to where _The Bootleg Beatles_ had been fooling no one.

That night Ron had dreamed of pale boys, white teeth and long fingers.

That had been Saturday.

Monday, Ron had been standing in line for dinner with Harry, when the blond kid had strolled up and stood behind him. And between the _Oh, God if I take a step back I'll touch him_ and the _bloody hell, he lives here_, Ron had been relieved to know that at least he had managed to retain his composure, and Harry still knew nothing of his crush (oh, shut up, Harry).

* * *

The next few weeks were taken up with some serious investigative work (and the occasional lecture and essay).

It only took a couple of days for Ron and Harry to discover that the blond boy lived in the last hall on the path.

By the end of the week they even knew which room. It had been a sudden and unexpected discovery, and it still made Harry giggle when he thought about it. It had happened like this:

Friday afternoon, Ron had arrived back from campus early, and decided it was the ideal time for a quick reconnaissance mission. He'd been strolling casually along the path, surreptiously glancing into the ground floor windows, when he'd nearly had a heart-attack. There, bold as day, was the very same boy he was on the look out for, smirking right back at him.

In typical Weasley fashion, Ron had immediately tripped over his own feet, feeling the ensuing blush starting somewhere around his knees. Having regained his footing, Ron had turned on his heel and headed back in the direction he'd just come (apparently oblivious to exactly how odd that might look).

A few steps later, Ron's brain had finally caught up with his feet, and he'd been unable to resist a last look back. He'd felt sure that the blond would have looked away by now (if he wasn't too busy laughing himself sick at Ron's expense), so he was in no way prepared for the soft smile on the boy's face. Ron was still staring, immobile, when the boy waved. And Ron was completely undone. Feeling unequal to anything else, he'd lowered his burning face and hurried back to Harry's room, where he had proceeded to collapse on the bed with a loud, pitiful groan.

Of course, Harry had thought the whole thing hilarious. Bloody git.

Shortly following this incident (and several nonchalent walks past the window later), Harry had recognised the blond's room-mate as somebody on his course. Ron had instantly set Harry the task of cultivating this Blaise Zabini ("seriously, Harry - _Blaise_? What sort of fucking name is that?") as a friend, in the hope that Harry could, thereby, cunningly find out the name of Ron's future husband (and, maybe, befriend someone who would be able to introduce Ron to his future husband).

Harry, being the best friend a man could have, set seriously about his task (and if Harry was spurred on by no little attraction of his own to the dark-haired room-mate, then surely that was nobody's business but his own).

Time moved on, and before long Harry and Blaise were on nodding terms (their friends exchanging awkward smiles in turn whenever the four passed each other).

Then, one night it happened.

They were in the Centre Bar, when Zabini and the blond boy (really, Harry, should at least had a name by now) walked in. Of course, Ron's eyes were immediately drawn to them.

He watched as they ordered their drinks, fully expecting them to move to their usual place at one of the tables in the corner. But to his surprise, they turned and leaned against the bar, eyes sweeping the rest of the room. Ron looked away quickly, afraid to be caught looking.

When Ron dared to look back, the two boys were still at the bar and appeared to be having an intense conversation. The blond was shaking his head, while Zabini was gesticulating enthusiastically.

Ron watched in fascination as something that the dark-haired boy said caused his friend to blush so deeply, that even from where he was sitting, Ron was able to make out the dark flush of colour as it spread rapidly across the boy's features. Then the blond shook his head again, but slower this time, and there was no mistaking the smirk on his face as he did so. Suddenly, he held up a finger, and Zabini laughed and shook his own head, before turning back to the bar and flagging down the barman.

Ron glanced down at his pint. They were certainly putting them away quicker than he and Harry if they were already on their second round.

When he looked back to the bar, Zabini had been served and he was just handing what looked like a large something-and-coke to his friend. Who proceeded to down it in one gulp. Ron was torn between admiration and horror. Had he fallen for a lush?

Before he could speculate further, however, Ron was forced to look hurriedly away as the boys moved from the bar and headed in his direction. Suddenly feeling panicked, Ron looked at Harry and squeaked, "Harry, I think Zabini's coming this way."

Harry's head shot up from where he'd been trying to flip a beer mat off the edge of the table. Ron felt a bit confused by the blush that began to spread across his friend's face. What was Harry blushing about? Surely, it was Ron that needed a hole to crawl into, and oh God, they really were heading this way.

"Harry, talk to me. For God's sake, talk to me."

Harry looked at him with wide eyes before nodding. "What do you want me to say?"

"Any fucking thing!"

Luckily, Harry was saved from having to think of anything, by the arrival of Zabini and his friend at their table. Ron stared intently at his pint while Harry looked up and nodded at the dark-haired boy.

"Hi, Blaise."

"Hi, Harry."

Ron risked a quick glance. Zabini was smiling at Harry. Smiling _coyly_ at Harry. _Huh_?

But, Ron got no further in his thoughts, as Harry chose that moment to introduce him.

"Er, Blaise, this is Ron."

Ron looked frantically between Harry and Zabini, almost as if he expected to be called on it.

Zabini grinned. "Hi, Ron." He turned to the blond boy. "This is Draco. Say hello to Ron, Draco." And he waggled his eyebrows at his friend in a manner very reminiscent of Pete.

_Draco_?

Seriously?

"_Draco_? What the fuck sort of name is that?"

The blond's smile froze, to be replaced a moment later by a contemptuous curl of the lips.

Ron wanted to die. Why the hell had he said that? Oh God, why couldn't he have kept his big mouth shut?

Draco (but no, really?) looked pointedly at Zabini for a moment, before turning on his heel and walking away.

Zabini shrugged helplessly at Harry, threw Ron a look of disgust, and followed his friend.

And, of course, Pete chose that moment to make an appearance.

"Whoa. Way to charm that fucker into bed, Ron."

Ron slumped head first onto the table.

Fuck.

* * *

Ron didn't know why Harry was so cross with him.

Okay, so he'd fucked up. Ron wasn't a complete idiot, he got that. If he could have taken back those words he would have. But he also thought that a) he should have had some kind of warning about that name (you didn't just spring things like that on poor unsuspecting people; in days gone by Malfoy probably would have had to carry a bell); and b) Harry, as Ron's best friend, should have been a little more supportive.

It's not as if it had effected Harry in any way.

Harry kept complaining that Zabini wouldn't speak to him anymore. So what? Harry had only talked to the bloke in the first place, so Ron could get to know Zabini's friend. If that wasn't going to happen now, then what was the point anyway?

And, that _definitely_ wasn't going to happen now.

Ron slumped in his seat and sighed.

Draco Malfoy.

Seriously though, who names their child _Draco_? Especially if their last name is _Malfoy_?

But, yeah. Okay, Ron accepted that he had maybe screwed up, and probably had some ground to make up.

* * *

Harry was going out with Zabini.

It was probably the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, but Ron was trying his hardest not to be bitter about it.

But God, it was hard.

Ron just didn't get why it had all fallen so easily into place for Harry, but not for him.

God knows, Zabini's name was almost as ridiculous as Malfoy's. Yeah, okay, so Harry hadn't insulted the bloke over it, but still. It wasn't Ron's fault. At least Harry had had some warning first; he'd had Blaise's name introduced gently to him, no doubt first hearing it spoken by their mutual lecturer, or seeing it listed on class lists etc; Harry hadn't had it thrust suddenly onto his consciousness, with only the cushioning effect of three-quarters of a pint of beer to lessen the blow.

The worse thing is, Ron actually liked the name Draco. Now.

(Now, Ron had spent time practising saying it breathlessly into this pillow as he came all over his fist).

On the up side,Ron supposed Harry seeing Zabini would mean he and Malfoy inevitably being thrown into each other's paths. In fact, this weekend the four of them were meant to be going on a pub crawl around York together. Ron just hoped that Malfoy would perhaps stop scowling at him long enough for him to apologise.

* * *

Pansy Parkinson was an evil bitch fiend from hell.

Which was rather unfortunate for several reasons.

First off, she was on the same course as Ron, and, therefore, in most of his lectures and a fair few of his tutorials.

This wouldn't have been too bad; he soon learnt to sit as far away from her as possible and never, ever, under any circumstances, make direct eye contact (rumour was that that was how the statue of the last Vice-Chancellor had come about). In fact, he could probably have quite easily avoided having much to do with her at all (after all, it's not as if he'd have to persuade her to have nothing to do with him).

Of course, avoidance became harder when one also took into account the fact that she lived in his hall. Just down the stairs in fact. In the room on the other side of Pete and Seamus. Next to the kitchen. And the bathroom.

Yeah.

Interestingly, in spite of all this obvious temptation, she still managed to resist actually speaking to Ron until half way through the year.

The timing wasn't great.

"Oh, my God, Weasley, do you even know where he's been?"

Ron pulled away from Pete's mouth (what could he say? The boy had been very, very persistant) and turned to face an extremely pissed-off looking Pansy Parkinson. It was quite an awkward maneouver given that Ron was sitting on the table outside her room, with an enthusiastic Pete standing between his legs, pressing himself as tightly up against Ron as he could; Ron was actually quietly impressed with himself that he had even managed it at all.

Pansy on the other hand was clearly _not_ impressed.

"Do you think you could move your little porn party elsewhere," she sneered. "Only some of us are trying to sleep, and your pathetic attempt to lose your virginity is giving me a migraine."

She began to close her door, then suddenly opened it again. "Oh, and Weasley, please get your skinny arse off the table. We have to eat off that."

And the door was slammed shut.

Ron turned back to Pete and frowned. "My arse isn't skinny. Do you think my arse is skinny?"

Pete giggled into his shoulder.

A sudden terrible thought wiped the smile from Ron's face. Pushing Pete away, he gripped the shorter boy by the shoulders and asked, "Oh God, you don't think she'll mention this to Malfoy do you?"

Pete laughed so hard that he ended up on the floor. "Oh, Ron," he gasped out between giggles. "You are _so_ fucked!"

Of course, the thing that perhaps made it most difficult to avoid Pansy, was the fact that she was one of Malfoy's oldest, closest friends.

* * *

Any hope that Ron still had that Pansy hadn't told Malfoy, disappeared when Zabini turned up at Harry's room the next night, and informed them both, rather icily, that Malfoy had decided to meet them at the station.

Harry had immediately sent Ron a sympathetic smile, but Zabini had looked at him like Ron was something unpleasant he'd found on the bottom of his expensive shoe (Pansy clearly had a big mouth).

Ron spent the walk down to the railway station trying to convince himself that the fact that Malfoy was still willing to go out surely meant something. Maybe Pansy hadn't even said anything and Ron was just being over-sensitive. They would all go out and probably have a lovely evening (Pete Wentz and his Marvellous Magical Tongue - it _really_ was - never intruding on any of their thoughts). Well, he could hope.

As they walked onto the platform, the first thing Ron noticed was the blue bracelet around Pansy's right wrist. The second thing he noticed was the scowl on Malfoy's face.

Hope disappeared in a firey ball.

It rapidly became one of the worst evenings of Ron's life.

Ron sat by himself on the train. Harry and Zabini were in the seats in front, and spent the entire journey doing the sort of obscene things to each other, that surely would have earned them a hefty fine, and possibly a life-time ban, had the conductor actually been rash enough to enter a compartment filled with rowdy students.

Behind him, Ron had Malfoy and Pansy. For the entire journey, he had to endure a litany of snide comments and remarks concerning the slutty behaviour of certain persons, who really needed to learn to keep it in their pants, or, at the very least, do it where others weren't forced to witness it. And so on. And on. And on.

Ron didn't even have the energy to turn around and argue the point. Instead, he looked out the window and longed for his ipod.

Things only got worse once they got off the train.

Pansy immediately dragged Malfoy off by the hand, leaving Ron to make up a very awkward threesome with Harry and Zabini. Harry, made a valiant effort to start up a conversation, but as Ron really wasn't in the mood to respond, and Zabini clearly had no intention of acknowleging Ron's presence, it really didn't go anywhere.

By the time they reached the first pub, Pansy already had Malfoy tucked into a dark corner, at a cosy table for two. Bitch, obviously wasn't going to let the fact that the boy was gayer than a John Barrowman concert, interfere with her attempts to get her claws into him. Ron balled his fists at his side and tried to ignore the surge of jealously he felt as he watched her stroking the back of Malfoy's hand. Forcing his eyes away, he told Harry that he'd get the first round and headed for the bar.

After a couple of hours, Ron thought about slipping away and catching the next train home. It's not as though anyone would notice. Although Pansy and Malfoy had continued with them from pub to pub, they were usually way ahead or lagging far behind, and always found a way to stand apart from the others when they arrived at each pub.

Even Harry had eventually given up on trying to include Ron in any conversation, and so, now, Ron was left to stand in gloomy silence sipping his orange juice (he'd switched from beer after the first pub; although the temptation to get shit-faced was very strong, he also had a horrible feeling that he might start crying if he carried on drinking).

It probably wouldn't have been so bad if Malfoy had followed his friends' lead and totally ignored Ron, but Ron kept catching glimpses of the blond giving him fleeting looks, which instead of being filled with the contempt Ron expected, were coming off more as wounded betrayal. It was weird.

Ron could understand the boy thinking he was a bit of a slut, especially as he was sure that Pansy would have put her own sleazy spin on what, after all, had only been an innocent snog (fuelled by too much alcohol and too many stray thoughts about Malfoy himself). What Ron didn't get, was why this would lead to Malfoy treating it like some sort of personal insult.

Ron may well have been hoping that something would develop between them, but it's not as if anything had happened yet. He didn't even know if the other boy liked him, but if he did, then Ron had been merely worried that the thing with Pete may have put him off; that Malfoy may have thought him too easy or worse, already taken. That was the reason why Ron had been so horrified by Pansy's discovery. He certainly hadn't expected Malfoy to act as though Ron had actually cheated on him. And yet, Ron couldn't shake the feeling that that was exactly what Malfoy was doing, at least if all the hurt looks were anything to go by.

Frankly, the whole thing was doing Ron's head in, and he just wanted to go home and hide under his covers. It felt like the mature thing to do.

Which of course, was the exact moment that Pete, Patrick and Seamus walked in.

Ron had no opportunity to see what Malfoy's reaction was to this development, as by the time he'd managed to remove Pete from around his neck, there was no sign of Pansy or Malfoy.

Ron turned to ask Harry where they had gone, and was met instead by Zabini shaking his head at him, a look of clear disgust written across his dark features. A moment later, Harry threw Ron an apologetic smile before allowing himself to be led out of the pub by Zabini.

Great.

* * *

Things pretty much went down hill from there.

For the rest of the year, if Ron ever came across Malfoy alone, the other boy would either cut Ron dead and walk straight on past or else curl his lip in a vicious sneer before turning around and walking in the opposite direction.

If Malfoy was with others, he would immediately turn to his companions and make some sort of cutting remark clearly aimed at Ron, smirking in Ron's direction as his friends laughed.

It should have made Ron hate him. It really should have.

It should have at least stopped the dreams.

Ron decided that the best defence was an offence (because that had always worked so well).

So, Ron began to make his own cutting remarks and throw his own dirty looks. And whether in a group or just with Harry, Ron never tired of listing the many ways he would love to see Draco Malfoy die horribly.

Most of Ron's friends humoured him, although he did catch the occasional roll of the eyes.

Thus was the state of play between the two a week before the end of term.

Ron wasn't looking forward to the end of the year. While it would be nice to get away from all the tension and sniping with Malfoy, he wasn't looking forward to spending a summer at home. He'd made some great friends and the thought of spending thirteen weeks away from them all - and the subsidised bar - filled him with dismay.

He might even miss the food at the Centre. Ron looked down at the congealed mess on his plate. Or maybe not. Sighing heavily, Ron picked up his tray and followed Harry to a table.

They were almost finished eating when Pete and Seamus joined them.

"Draco Malfoy is a complete bastard," Seamus declared as he sat down.

Ron and Harry both looked at the Irish boy in surprise.

"Erm," Ron turned back to Harry, "isn't that my line?"

Harry shrugged, looking equally perplexed.

Pete grinned. "Haven't you heard?" He asked gleefully.

Ron and Harry exchanged further confused looks.

Pete started to laugh. "See, Seamus, I told you Ron hadn't pushed him."

Seamus grunted moodily into his dinner.

Before Harry or Ron could say anything in response, Patrick came running up to their table, wearing a huge grin.

"Oh my God," he said. "I've just heard what happened to Malfoy."

Then, seeming to suddenly notice Ron, Patrick stopped smiling and said, "oh, sorry Ron."

Ron couldn't take it any more. "Will someone please tell me what the fuck has happened to Malfoy?" He shouted.

"You don't know?" Patrick asked, looking vaguely horrified.

And Ron started to feel queasy. Shit. What had happened to the annoying little Ferret? (Malfoy had recently taken to calling Ron "Weasel," and Ron was damned if he was going to be outdone).

Thankfully, Pete had recovered enough to tell them what had happened.

"Last night Crabbe and Goyle threw a little party, " he said. "You must have heard the music."

Harry and Ron nodded; Crabbe and Goyle shared a room on the next landing up from Ron.

"Well," Pete paused to grin at Patrick. "Malfoy was invited. From what I've heard, a lot of weed was being passed around and by all accounts Malfoy's a bit of a lightweight. He was sitting on their balcony wall when he apparently forgot where he was and leant back and -"

Seamus jumped in with, "and the selfish bastard fell arse about tip off the fucking balcony, hitting every bush on the way down and making an unholy racket about it." He scooped another forkful of beans into his mouth.

Ron couldn't speak. Malfoy was dead. The love of his life had thrown himself off a balcony and... and all Seamus could do was eat beans and call him selfish. Oh God.

Harry looked wildly between Ron and Seamus before finally finding his voice. "Fuck, is he alright?"

"Alright?" Seamus all but shouted, "Alright? Of course the little fucker's alright. Did he have a fucking exam at 9 o'clock this morning? Of course he didn't! Otherwise the selfish little shite wouldn't have been getting wasted and waking other people up with his late night shenanigans." And with that he stood up and strode out of the hall.

Pete grinned. "Seamus is a little pissed off. When Malfoy landed on the bush outside our window, it woke Seamus up, and he struggled to get back to sleep after the ambulance left."

Oh God, he was alive. Ron suddenly felt dizzy, he rested his head on the table. He pretended not to notice the exchange of knowing looks between the other three boys. Or Pete laughing his arse off.

That night over at the bar, Pete and Seamus were only too glad to re-live the drama of the previous night and Ron began to see the funny side (this may have had something to do with the fact, that he had heard earlier that Malfoy was back from hospital, and although a bit battered and bruised, would make a full recovery).

He was a little surprised that he hadn't been woken up by all the obvious commotion, but his mother always did say Ron slept like the dead, and Harry hadn't heard anything either, and his window was right next door to Pete and Seamus'.

Pete wiped away another tear of laughter. "Oh God, it was so funny. He bounced from bush to bush, letting out a scream each time he did." He turned to grin at Ron. "You'd have loved it, Ron." (Ron ignored the wink Pete gave the others at the table; Ron was getting very, very good at ignoring his friends odd little looks and ticks).

Ron smiled back at him, then closed his eyes and sighed, "Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing ferret..."

When he opened his eyes, Ron was surprised to see his friends looking suddenly serious. "What -"

Then, he realised that they were all looking over his shoulder. Ron whipped his head around just in time to see Malfoy limping out the door, his progress probably slower than Malfoy would have liked due to the large, uncomfortable neck brace he was wearing.

"Fuck." Ron turned back to his friends. "Do you think he heard me?"

Pete laughed himself off his chair and under the table.


End file.
